A Sinner's Confession
by CaptainHooksGirl
Summary: On his way to deliver his resignation, Javert passes a small church and decides to make one last confession. Every man-no matter how strong-has a breaking point. And Javert had just reached his.


**Author's Note: Okay, I admit it...I'm slightly obsessed with Javert. :) The characters and plot in this one-shot are sort of a mix of the movie, stage musical, and book, though I lean more heavily toward the book than I have in my previous 'Les Mis' fics. I'm quite proud of this one and feel like I have a better handle on the inspector's character than I did before. Please let me know your thoughts if you feel inclined to leave a review. :)**

**~CaptainHooksGirl~**

**Disclaimer: If I owned 'Les Mis,' this is how the story would have ended.**

**A Sinner's Confession**

The city was unusually quiet tonight, the light scratch of pen against paper the only sound he could distinguish despite the terribly thin and often drafty walls of the apartment. It was a simple, tidy little flat, modestly furnished with only the essential items one would need for day-to-day life—a bed, a wash basin, a small table, a few wicker chairs that had seen better days, and the writing desk at which he sat. Javert sighed and set the pen aside, the slight disturbance of his breath causing the candle flame to quiver.

There. It was finished.

Everything he'd ever wanted to say but couldn't. Everything he _should _have done but didn't. In a way, it was his last confession. Everything was in order now. Javert was nothing if not thorough, and the last thing he wanted was to leave a mess for someone else to clean up when he was gone. No, this would be better—a clean cut with no loose ends to tie up. Tomorrow, the sun would rise on a day like any other. Javert would not be there to see it, but the world would keep on turning. He seriously doubted anyone would miss him. In all likelihood, they would hardly even notice that he was gone. It would be as though he had never existed at all.

A sudden, sickening thought crossed his mind, the reality of what he was about to do weighing heavily on his conscience. A lesser man would have trembled, but Javert merely set the paper off to the side and calmly began to put pen and ink away, the slight twitch of his fingers as he reached for the knob on the drawer the only indication of his internal distress. Restoring the writing utensils to their proper place—though it mattered little, he supposed, since he would not be using them again—he reached for an envelope, frustrated when the box slid out of his grasp, spilling its contents, fingertips groping blindly in the back of the drawer. The letter would not need to be addressed, as he was using official stationary that was sealed with his personal stamp—assuming, of course, that he didn't knock over the inkwell in his attempts to right the box, thereby ruining any chances of legibility. Cursing underneath his breath, he moved to put the inkwell back on the table when his fingers wrapped around a foreign object.

He froze.

Slowly, he closed his fist over the item, bringing his hand out of the drawer to better inspect the object in the light. It was a tiny leather pouch, no bigger than a child's purse, with a thin cord attached so that it might be worn around the neck. He ran his thumb over the bag, the soft leather worn smooth from years of a nervous habit of touching it for luck. He carefully undid the drawstring, emptying the contents into his open palm—some polished stones, a crystal, a small carving, and a few coins of gypsy gold worth more in sentiment than monetary value—trinkets of a past life better left forgotten. It was the only thing his mother had ever owned, the only inheritance he had ever received. It was a small thing, really—something that under ordinary circumstances would hardly have affected him. Had it been any other day, he would have merely grumbled at himself for his inability to throw it out and shoved it back into the back of the drawer with all of the other things that he didn't want to deal with. But the day had been far from ordinary, and every man—no matter how strong—has a breaking point.

He had watched his own father waste away in a prison cell when he held the keys and felt nothing. He'd handcuffed a dying prostitute sobbing for her child and didn't bat an eye. He'd watched men—no _boys_, barely more than children—murdered in cold blood before a firing squad at the barricades and hadn't given it a second thought. (_That's a lie_, he thought. In fact, they'd hardly left his mind all afternoon.) And all it took was an enemy's mercy and a handful of gypsy charms to cause his undoing.

In an act that required far more effort than it should have, Javert reverently returned the items to the bag and blew out the candle, immersing himself in total darkness. And there, in the quiet stillness of his home, laying bare a piece of his soul that he would not even allow himself to see, Javert bowed his head and wept.

xxxx

It was still dark outside when Javert rose, lifting his head after what might have been minutes or hours and hastily brushing the back of a palm across his cheeks to eliminate any residual evidence of emotion. Then he stood and, with a renewed confidence, relit the candle, folding the letter into an envelope and sealing it appropriately. He started to return the pouch to the drawer but hesitated, shoving it into his pocket at the last minute instead and pulling on his jacket. He stopped when he realized that it was his officer's attire, shrugging it off in self-disgust in favor his old gray overcoat. He had disgraced the uniform long before he'd decided to let Valjean go free and felt unworthy of the title he'd once took pride in. Letter of resignation in hand, he once again smothered the flame and headed out the door, locking it behind him for what would surely be the last time. He never bothered to look back, for he couldn't allow himself to doubt that, yet again, he was making the wrong decision. He had been fighting with himself over the matter ever since Valjean had let him go, and after all the fighting he'd witnessed and participated in over the past week, quite frankly, he was tired of it.

He had been walking for quite some time when, a few blocks away from the police station, something caught his eye, the silver gleam of a metal cross in the moonlight. He stopped, staring at the church doors with a mixture of pained horror, longing, and guilt. At long last he sighed, turning from his path on the road and making his way up the steps to knock hesitantly on the front door. Better to make his peace with God now than at the bottom of the Seine. Suicide was considered an unforgiveable sin, but he could at least make an attempt to set things right.

Given the hour, he hadn't really expected an answer, so when he heard a voice behind him as he was turning to leave, it nearly made him jump. But Javert had trained himself long ago not to react, and so he merely froze in place, glancing back over his shoulder with an air of nonchalance.

"The hour is late, my son," the priest greeted him, "and the hearts of many are heavy tonight. No doubt yours is among them. But there is rest for the weary in God's house. Do come in."

Javert simply nodded, grateful that the man had not asked him for an explanation, for in all honestly, he wasn't quite sure why he was there. Confession, he supposed—though this would be different than any sort of confession he'd done before. Oh, he confessed often enough, but it was mostly little things he confessed of, things that everyone was guilty of like a fleeting thought or missing mass. He attended services regularly, as often as he could, and by the world's standards he was the very definition of a good little Catholic. And for the majority of his life, he had thought that was enough. But it wasn't. He knew that now, the plank-eyed sinner masquerading as a saint, a hypocritical Pharisee who had seen the light too late and was now stumbling blindly toward the pits of hell.

The priest gathered all of this from simply looking at the inspector—the shuffling gait, the slumped shoulders, the tired, empty gaze were all traits of a proud man who had been brought to knees, a heart of stone made flesh, humbled beyond recognition—but of course, he said nothing, knowing that the man would speak when he was ready.

They walked in silence to the confessional box, an unspoken understanding easing the tension between them. Though there was no one else around, many men found it easier to confess if they did not have to look the priest directly in the eye, and while Javert might once have been confident enough to do so, this night he was no exception—a sinner no better than any of the men he had convicted. He quietly recited the traditional introductory words, words that should have brought him comfort but instead brought only shame. After a long pause, Javert closed his eyes and sighed.

"I don't even know where to begin."

"Well, the beginning is always a good place to start."

He couldn't see the man, but Javert felt certain the old priest was smiling—that innocent, kind sort of smile that one only uses to gently lighten the mood when they feel pity. It reminded him of something Valjean would do, and he hated the man for it, unsure of whether he was sickened more over the fact that he had just admitted to himself that he hated a priest or that he'd spent so many years trying to convict a man whose heart was as pure as any of God's representatives on earth.

_How could I have been so blind?_

There were many things Javert needed to repent of, but one stood at the forefront of his mind.

"Father, is it possible to ask for forgiveness for a sin that has not yet been committed?"

Behind the veiled window, the priest frowned thoughtfully. "I don't believe so, my son. Usually when one asks for forgiveness, you see, the assumption is that the offender is sorry for the sin that was committed and, therefore, will endeavor not to commit the offense again. To ask in advance would merely be asking permission to sin." He paused. "You are a man of the law, are you not?"

Javert seemed mildly surprised, though he supposed he shouldn't have been. Nearly everyone in Paris knew of the formidable inspector even if they, personally, had never encountered him.

"Yes."

"If someone came to you in advance of committing a crime and asked you to pardon them, would you believe that they were truly sorry for their actions?"

Javert was quick to answer, fairly jumping out of his seat with a vehement cry of "Absolutely not!" Only afterwards did the full implication of his words settle heavily upon his mind.

_Judge not that ye be not judged, for with what judgment ye judge ye shall be judged. _ [1]

He sank back into the chair, defeated, and barked a short, sad laugh. "I truly am damned, aren't I?"

"It is never too late to be forgiven, monsieur. Even in his eleventh hour, the thief on the cross who cried out to the Lord was admitted into paradise."

This, of course, had the opposite of the intended effect on Javert, who groaned at his own stupidity for having conveniently forgotten this particular verse of scripture for the better part of nearly forty years. [2]

Confused by this strange behavior, the priest furrowed his brow. "Why ever would feel the need to ask for forgiveness in advance of a sin to begin with?" he asked.

Javert did not look up, cheeks flushed with embarrassment and shame. "Because I will not be around to ask for it later," he answered quietly.

"I see."

For a moment, neither spoke.

"May I ask," the priest enquired gravely, "what has brought you to such a state of desperation?"

"I have failed in my duty to the law…and to God." When the priest did not respond, he sighed heavily. "Nearly forty years ago, a man stole a loaf of bread to feed his starving family. I was among those who guarded him at the prison in Toulon. He attempted escape several times, each time adding additional years to his original sentence. He was a surly, bad-tempered man, and when he finally was released, he broke parole and disappeared from the system."

The priest nodded encouragingly, forgetting for a moment that Javert could not see the gesture. "Go on."

"I took it upon myself to track him down and bring him to justice, feeling as though it was my duty since I had been assigned to guard him. But when I finally found him years later in another town under a false name, he had been transformed into another man—a good man with a respectable business who gave to the poor and took in orphans of prostitutes. I thought it all to be act at the time. I did not understand how a man could change so much. I thought it impossible. I should have let it go at that—accepted his repentant ways and moved on—but I did not…I _could_ not forgive him."

"Even King David, whom God spoke of as a man after his own heart, unlawfully ate of the showbread when he and his men were hungry, and the Lord did not condemn him," the priest interjected. [3] "It's not as though he wronged you personally. If you knew God could forgive him, why was it so difficult for you?"

Javert scowled. "I am _not_ God!" he snapped. He frowned ruefully. "The law knows no mercy, and neither did I." He paused, and then, in a voice that the priest could barely hear, said "That man saved my life today."

"So you let him go?"

Javert nodded. "I let him go."

"And you are distressed because you are torn between what you feel you _should_ do and what your duty requires of you?"

The inspector threw up his hands, giving exasperated growl. "Duty? Law? Right? It's all the same isn't it?!"

He could feel the priest smiling again, those wise, kind eyes staring at him through the veil with a sort of patronizing pity. He loathed that look, and he loathed himself even more for realizing that he deserved just such a reprimand.

"I know that as a man of the law, it is your duty to make certain decisions and enforce certain rules of society, but sometimes, Inspector, what is _right_ and what is _lawful_ are not exactly the same thing." He paused. "Would you arrest a doctor for practicing his work on Sunday?"

"The law is the law," Javert answered coldly.

"So you would see a wounded man bleed to death first?"

Javert was unsure of how to answer. "That depends…" he replied slowly. "Are these men rebels or respectable citizens?"

The priest smiled sadly. "They are _all_ the children of God. What difference does it make?"

By this time Javert had become irritated. He was not accustomed to having others challenge his authority, and this confession was beginning to feel suspiciously like an interrogation.

"I don't see how this hypothetical scenario has anything to do with my predicament," he spat. "The man stole. Stealing is wrong. The Word of the Lord says, 'Thou shalt not steal.'" [4]

"It also says, 'Love thine enemy.'" [5]

The inspector faltered. He knew the passage. It was not a popular message, but he knew that if he opened his bible, he would find the priest's words were true. He could not argue with that, yet his pride would not allow him to reply without the sting of sarcasm.

"What would you have me do?" he sneered sourly. "Release every prisoner in France? Turn a blind eye to corruption? I hardly think that is just."

"Loving someone is not the same thing as ignoring their sin. In fact, God encourages us to point out one another's flaws so that we may correct them. _However_, we must also learn to recognize the flaws within ourselves. I am not saying that you should allow a felon's deeds to go unpunished, but you must realize that they are only human…as are you." When he was met with silence, he continued. "Only you can decide what course of action to take with this former convict. I cannot tell you for certain what God would have you do, but one thing is for certain—He would not wish for you to throw your life away; indeed, it is not yours to take."

"I deserve hell."

"As would we all without Christ's forgiveness. But it is not your place to make such judgments—not even of yourself. If the Lord desires to punish you, then He will do as He sees fit, but He does not require your assistance in the matter. And I sincerely hope, with all my heart, that you will leave such decisions up to Him."

Javert gave a curt nod. "I shall keep that in mind."

xxxx

The early morning sky was beginning to lighten by the time Javert reached his destination, the pale gray of dawn giving way to a faint pink glow as the first rays of sunlight spilled over the horizon. He paused to pull a strip of paper from his pocket, double checking the address before he approached the door, giving three sharp, brisk knocks with the back of his knuckles. Momentarily, the door opened to reveal a young woman not more than twenty, her golden tresses tied back in a simple fashion with a black silk ribbon. Her blue eyes widened slightly, brow furrowing in confusion when she realized that she recognized the man from somewhere but could not quite place the face.

"May I help you, monsieur?"

Javert frowned, momentarily distracted—and slightly offended—by the lack of the formal title that usually accompanied his name until he remembered that he was wearing civilian attire and that he was, in fact, no longer an inspector. He recovered himself quickly, though not before noticing the similarities between the girl's face and another he'd seen long ago, the unfamiliar sting of guilt probing his conscience as he removed his hat.

"Yes. I'm looking for…." He paused, trying to recall the convict's latest pseudonym. "For a Monsieur Fauchelevent. He told me I might find him here. Is he at home?"

The girl smiled encouragingly. "Yes, though he is a bit tired. It has been a rather long night for the both of us," she said, thinking of Marius. How her father had discovered her beloved's plight she still didn't know, but for the moment, she was happy simply to know that he was alive. She frowned, still frustrated at being unable to put a name to the face of the man before her. "Are you a friend of his?"

"More of an acquaintance, really."

She nodded, satisfied. "I shall fetch him presently."

"Thank you."

But just as she turned to go inside, the man in question appeared by her side.

"That won't be necessary," Valjean said, warily eyeing the visitor. He turned to his daughter. "Cosette, this is Inspector Javert. He is the man who is responsible for Marius' well-being…and he once saved my life."

"Oh!" she gasped. "My apologies, Inspector! I didn't realize…." She shook her head, eyes filled with gratitude he knew that he did not deserve. "Is this true?"

Javert looked uncomfortable. "Your apologies are not needed," he replied, pointedly avoiding the answer to her question. His eyes met Valjean's. "I have resigned my post."

"Oh…." Cosette was at a loss of how to respond. "I'm…sorry."

For a moment, the three of them were silent, no one quite certain of how best to proceed. Taking the opportunity to break the awkward tension, Valjean stepped forward, clearing his throat.

"Cosette, why don't you put on some tea for our guest?"

"Of course, Father."

She nodded politely to the former inspector, then turned and scurried off to the kitchen, leaving the two men to sort out the situation on their own. Valjean was the first to speak.

"Would you care to come inside?"

Javert stiffened. "I'd rather remain out here, if it's all the same to you." His eyes darted in the direction that Cosette had disappeared. "Is she…?"

"Yes."

Javert was surprisingly grateful for his swift answer. He had been going to say 'the prostitute's daughter' but stopped short when he realized how offensive it sounded as one whose own parentage was no better.

"She has grown into a fine young woman."

Valjean beamed with fatherly pride, though his smile was a bit sad. "That she has. Each day she seems to me to grow in beauty—both inside and out. She has become a brave, kind-hearted, honorable woman—much like her mother was."

Javert started to say that he hardly thought women of Fantine's profession could be considered _honorable_ but decided some things were better left unsaid and forced himself to hold his tongue. He had not come here looking for a fight.

"Why did you lie to her about me?"

"I didn't," Valjean answered simply. "If you had decided to arrest me when you had the chance, Marius never would have survived the night. You knew who I was, and you knew he was a revolutionary, yet you allowed me to carry him to safety. For that, I am eternally grateful. I could not live with myself if I knew that my past had prevented me from ensuring Cosette's happiness. Thank you."

Javert glowered at him. "And when have I _ever_ saved your life?"

The former convict looked mildly surprised. "Don't you remember? The Gorbeau house? When Thénardier tried to kill me?"

"Ah. Yes. That." He regarded the older man with disdain. "I likely wouldn't have been so gracious had I known his intended victim was you."

"Nevertheless, I owe you my life."

"You owe me nothing."

Though neither spoke of the barricade, a silent understanding passed between them that any debt incurred had been repaid.

Javert sighed. "Why must you be so difficult, Valjean?"

"Difficult?"

Javert clenched his fists, shouting with a sudden ferocity he hadn't realized he still possessed. "I SHOULD NOT FEEL GUILTY ABOUT DELIVERING A CRIMINAL TO THE LAW!"

He sighed again when he noticed how pale Valjean's face had gone, the older man glancing nervously over his shoulder, hoping rather doubtfully that Cosette hadn't heard the most recent portion of the conversation.

"I'm not here to arrest you, Valjean," he said, lowering his voice. "I couldn't if I wanted to, remember? I no longer have the authority to do so."

The implication that Javert did not, in fact, _want_ to arrest him did not go unnoticed.

The former inspector hesitated. "If someone is to report you, it will not be my doing."

"Oh!" Valjean clutched his chest with such violence that for a moment, Javert feared he'd caused the man's heart to stop. "Oh, thank you, Javert!"

Tears of relief pooled in his eyes as Valjean stepped forward to grasp his former adversary's hand in an appreciative gesture of thanks only to have Javert push him away.

"Do not thank me!"

Valjean looked genuinely puzzled. "Then what would you have me do?"

The anger had returned. "Curse me! Hit me! Spit in my face! _Anything_ that any other man would do! Only do not behave as though we are old friends when it is obvious that we are not!"

The older man smiled gently. "Ah, of course! But if I cannot call you 'friend,' perhaps it would be more appropriate that I should call you 'brother.' For we are brothers in the Lord, are we not?" When Javert did not respond, he continued, intuitively understanding the request that the former inspector's pride would not allow him to make. "God requires us to forgive, Javert. I am only doing what He asks. I forgave you long ago. God, I believe, did too. It seems to me that the only one you truly require forgiveness from now is yourself."

Had Javert been composed of a weaker substance, he might have given in to the sudden urge he had to fall upon his knees and weep. But, of course, he would not permit that of himself and settled, instead, for what he hoped was a look of the immense gratitude he felt, as though a great and unbearable burden had been lifted from his chest.

This time, when Valjean offered him a hand, he hesitated only for a moment before slowly reaching out and accepting it, his own fingers meeting with a warm, firm grip and a hearty handshake.

Valjean grinned. "Come," he said, throwing an arm around Javert's shoulders. "You must join us for breakfast. Cosette makes the most wonderful croissants, and I'm certain we will have a few to spare."

Javert didn't argue. He merely followed along and, despite the strange circumstances, allowed himself to be led inside. If Valjean had looked closely, he might have noticed the tiniest hint of a smile on his companion's face. But Javert would never admit it.

xxxx

[1] Matthew 7:1-2

[2] Luke 23:39-43

[3] 1 Samuel 21:1-6, Matthew 12:3-7

[4] Exodus 20:15

[5] Matthew 5:44


End file.
